While I sit on the stool, Isabel lies on the bed, illuminated by September moonlight.
I’m tortured by uncertainty. Should I?
I approach the bed and gaze down at her. She’s dressed in my favourite nightgown, the one I bought for our silver anniversary. Her dark hair is scattered over the pillows, the beauty of her delicate features impervious to time.
She wakes and grimaces.
“Is the pain bad?”
“Yes,” she confirms. “Don’t let it worry you. I want to do it.”
Isabel is adamant, although I’m unhappy and my hands tremble as I lift the hem of her gown.
I smile into her azure eyes as I slide the silk over her slim thighs, across her midriff and upwards until she is exposed.
Her breasts are petite with delicate stubs of nipples, an irresistible pinkness that draws my lips towards them.
My mind travels back, back into time when I first saw her naked.
Isabel stands by the bed, nervous and hesitant. She’s unable to meet my eyes and a blush streaks her face.
“T,” she whispers. “Do you love me?”
It’s the $64,000 question. If I provide the correct answer, I win the prize.
“Yes, of course I do.”
The wonder of it is, it’s the truth.
I shake with anticipation. She excites me, despite being a little dumpy, not yet tall enough to distribute the puppy fat. Most likely it’s the way she dresses that causes me to burn. She adores blouses and, although no longer in fashion - it’s 1974 - most times, she wears a flared out skirt.
I love to see her in a blouse, an image that has provided many hours of fantasy. Countless times I’ve overcome a day of drudgery at the factory as I’ve acted out my daydreams. By the end of the shift, most days my jeans are stained with pre-cum, but hidden under my overalls.
“It’s only because I adore you, that I’m doing it,” she tells me.
“Yes, I know,” I say, unable to hide my impatience. We’ve been dating for over six months and this is the first time I’ve come even close to sex. It’s not the time to chat.
“You’ll have to be quick,” she warns. “My parents will be back from the shops around 5.00.”
I don’t need to be told more than once and rush to take her in my arms. I kiss her, starting with her neck. I’ve done my homework, and know everything about erogenous zones, even though I don’t believe half of what I read. Sucking toes and kisses behind the knees – don’t make me laugh!
I kiss up and down her neck, but it doesn’t seem to work. In desperation, I move my mouth along her bare shoulder and that doesn’t have any effect. Not even a groan. Surely Playboy can’t be wrong, but perhaps American girls are different.
I decide to up the ante, cut to the chase and fumble her onto her back. She lies on the bedspread, face expressionless with stiff limbs like she’s a dummy.
“I love you, Isabel.”
Stone faced, she ignores my declaration, whereas normally she’ll gush when I tell her. I shrug. Oh well, I thought it would please her.
Her pale blue and white skirt is spread wide, supported by gauze slips.
I lift the skirt no more than a foot before her hands slam the material down.
“No, Tony,” she growls.
I give her a weak smile with an apology. “Sorry.”
Shit! I know better than that. Girls like foreplay. In my eagerness, I’d forgotten everything I’d learnt. I really ought to utilise the benefit of Hugh Hefner’s experience. Think of the centrefolds he’s slept with. If anyone knows how to treat women, it’s him.
Isabel’s off the shoulder blouse is white cotton, a symbol of her pureness, a purity that excites me. I’m the one privileged to take her virginity. There are only three buttons to release. My fingers tremble as I undo them, the excitement growing in my loins as I anticipate the sight. I pull the cotton apart to reveal her bra, also white.
I hold my breath as I slide my right hand inside. Her skin is warm and so soft. My palm glides under her left breast as I cup her; a tender grasp as though I embrace a newborn pup. With the prize held captive, I slide the cup down with my other hand. Her breast is free.
I tease myself as I avoid the sight of what I’ve longed to admire. I release the other breast. After months of yearning, at long last, Isabel is exposed. It’s a beautiful vision, even more exciting than I’d imagined, and I lose track of time as I gaze at her.
My penis aches as it presses against the constraint of my jeans. I’ve never seen real breasts, only photos, and my insides churn with the prospect.
Although they are exquisite, her nipples are smaller than expected, unlike the firm uprights in Playboy. Maybe she’s too young; after all, she’s only just sixteen.
I’m eager to pet them, and I know my touch will increase their size. In a few minutes they’ll be incredibly large. The tips of my fingers squeeze and caress one nipple, while my lips smooth over the other. My strokes are delicate as I pet over her skin, my tongue lapping over her right breast, occasionally sliding it into the valley of her cleavage. I can’t get enough. I crisscross over her with fine kisses while my fingers show how I adore her. My eyes close as I shut out the distraction of her bedroom. This is bliss.
Isabel should be groaning, her nipples erect.
She isn’t, and they’re not.
I look up at her.
Tears stain the sides of her face before they disappear into the thickness of her auburn hair.
“Isabel, what’s the matter?”
She grins through the mist of tears. “Nothing. Carry on.”
I move my hand from her body and caress the tears away. “You’re fibbing.”
“No, T. It’ll be alright.”
Shit, I think, it’s far from ‘alright.’
I hesitate before I make the noble sacrifice. “You’re doing this for me ... not for us.”
“I told you at the start. I love you.”
I sit up and study her face. “This is against your religious beliefs. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
She doesn’t reply, although her eyes tell me I’m right. I was certain I could change her mind and she would agree to sex before marriage. Now I’ve succeeded, I wonder if it’s worth the price she’ll pay.
I pivot on my backside and sit on the edge of the bed. Fuck!
There’s a pause, a silence apart from her blowing her nose.
A stain on my jeans and the outline of a still firm prick mocks me.
The tender touch of her arms as they embrace my waist and the smell of her hair as it slides against my cheek delivers a renewed thrill.
“C’mon, my love,” she coos. “I’m alright now. Make love to me.”
I turn to face her. Her lower lip quivers as she fights back the tears.
“No, darling,” I whisper.
Darling? Shit, I sound like a grown up. I do feel grown up though. I’m soon to make an adult decision. Right now, I’m good with it, although later it’s likely I’ll kick myself at what I did.
She studies me with a faint hope in her eyes, although she continues to offer herself. “T, I was being silly. Honest, I’m ok.”
“I love you, Isabel. I can wait.”
“Until we marry.”
She gasps. “You mean it? Marriage. Is that a proposal?”
I’m scared and my guts complain at my rashness. Despite terror, I’m excited at the possibility. “Yes,” I state with a positive voice. “Yes ... one day.”
She’s laughing and bouncing on the bed. Isabel is so excited she’s even forgotten she’s nude. Her breasts rise and fall with each bounce and I think I’ll go crazy with desire as I watch this amazing image.
I can stand it no longer and place my hands on her shoulders to stop her.
She follows my gaze downwards and blushes.
“Darling Isabel,” I whisper. “Would you mind if I ... put them away?”
“That would be lovely, T.” She giggles. “Yes, please.”
I return to the present. It’s late September, but the night is warm. I remove my clothes and lie beside her.
“The doctor warned us against any undue excitement. Isabel, it could kill you.”
“Darling, what difference would it make?”
We’ve discussed this so many times over the last few weeks and any logic I may present is meaningless in the circumstances.
I grin my agreement.
The memory of our wedding night remains, a sweet and glorious time for two virgins.
Isabel leans on the balcony rail and looks at the night reflections on the sea.
We’ve travelled many hours to reach our honeymoon destination. We left the reception late afternoon and now it’s almost 3.00 in the morning. We’re near exhaustion and should be asleep.
I’m behind her, my arms around her waist, lips nuzzling her neck. “You’re tired,” I hush, “let’s get some sleep.”
“And waste this Mediterranean moonlight?”